


For better or for worse

by Bicyclesfortwo (orphan_account)



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:21:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27169229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Bicyclesfortwo
Summary: John’s life did not go as planned, the stay in Hamburg became short with a job that wasn’t great and the pay was low, he was expelled from school months ago and now Mimi’s been digging his nerves lately. The only person he could ever feel calm and collected is with Paul, along the way, but he discovered a feeling he’d never expected to possess, a feeling that may change their friendship for the good or bad.
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 22
Kudos: 29





	For better or for worse

John paced down the revitalizing streets of Liverpool, dead-tired of withdrawals from uppers and alcohol still in his system. It’s been a month already, he hadn’t a clue why.

Mimi’s one ticking nerve pontificating his  _ grotty  _ career futile, over and over like a cricket chirping nightly. Poor Cyn, she’d dealt with her exactly as long as John’s stay in Hamburg, said so in long letters sent to John like yellow journalists begging for cash and attention.. Except these were true and genuine. He’d had enough of Mimi now and left, listening to her yell across the street for him to come back  _ this  _ instant but obviously, why would he listen? She wasn’t letting him reason with her. Plus he wasn't a kid.

_ Or maybe I am,  _ John thought,  _ according to some people. _

He hasn’t seen Paul in weeks since belying Hamburg without a word to either peer, out of anger and betrayal since finding out Paul, George, and Pete were repatriated. Smoke-scented leather dipped in alcohol still dove memories of shitty housing and obscene imaging. Windowless walls made them isolated in thought, insane almost. Shagging and charming birds was the only escape there after a gig.

He climbed over the fence of forthlin road with a few pebbles he grabbed along the way, planning on throwing it at McCartney’s window. The crack he’d left months ago still visible deep halfway. It took a couple of times to get a silhouette into view since throwing hard was no option. 

Paul leaned on the windowpane and squinted into the darkness, looking no different now than previous weeks. John took notice of how pale Paul was from staying indoors for so long. “Lennon?”

John smirked, spreaded his raised arms up the air. “The one and only.” 

Paul’s eyes lit up with that smile perking his ears. “I never thought I’d see you again.” he moved away from the window for John to get in who climbed up the pipe. “Stay quiet, my dad’s still awake.” John ignored him anyway, boots strident on the floor, Paul lour a whisper. “I said quiet!”

John only shrugged and stared off into the distance. “Your da’ can kiss my arse getting up here, I’ll show him a rebel.” He walked around the room, accustomed by objects and picture frames scattered along the walls with little to no posters, paying no mind to the huff Paul aimed. 

“You still play then?” John asked, Paul nodded, sanguine. His tan-wood guitar hung on the wall, strings worn and oxidized from aging and repetitive use, John could only imagine the amount of hours and practice that went in skill. Below it was a crate crammed with Rock n’ roll records. 

Music was everywhere around Paul’s room; John could taste it, feel the metal strings pressing his finger tips, all at once singing and listening to the beautiful harmony he and Paul mastered from countless records harked. He turned around to see Paul’s sleep-soaked face, hair strands flowed in different directions. The dark mass surrounding those eyes were a dead give away, but even with that Paul still looked gorgeous. The lamp sitting on the nightstand illuminated half of his face with sharp shadows and midtones defining his features. John could just peck all around his face (if he could).

“You came back, recently?” Paul asked.

“Uh, no...” John paused, scrambled through stacks of jumbled records, meeting Elvis in thumb-halt. Occupied by the song list. “A month ago, just a few days ahead after you an’ pete were deported.”

Paul scurried to his side, brows furrowed with his lip gaping, leaning against the crate he’d stuffed. “Since December?” John nodded, replaced Elvis with Little Richard now.

Paul slowly moved his gaze to the floor, saying, “You’ve been here for a whole month and didn’t bother contacting anyone?”

John stops for a second and places the record back. Twists his body to Paul. “Exactly, got a problem?”

“Of course it’s a problem! I’ve been worried sick, wondering when you’d be back.”

“I’m a big boy, Paulie. I can handle things meself.” He said, catching the way Paul’s lip pursed, clenched jaw.

“You sure don’t act like it sometimes.” Paul mutters. “Actually, all the time.”

“Oh, Bugger off!”

Both laugh and settle down. Stood in front of each other with eye contact like no other, intense and exquisite. John could almost feel Paul looking through his soul, his true self rather than that false macho facade protecting him from pain. It was scary for a tad, but this was just Paul, no one else but them in one room.

The silence between them broke when Paul cleared his throat, shuffled his feet towards the door with noisy swipes between cotton and wood. “Want a bottle of beer? I’ve a pack hidden in the fridge.”

John nodded while draping his jacket over the foot of the bed. “Better not have that same shitty beer like last time,” he tucks his shirt’s hem under his pants. “Number one piss taste.”

“Oh brother,” Paul groaned, chagrin. “Don’t ever remind me that.” 

John’s mouth quirked in mockery, rubbed his hands together, “Can’t stop me from saying what you’ve already done.”

When Paul opened the door, a tv show echoed the tattered walls of the staircase that shed peeled paint on wool carpet, Paul said to be quiet again to which John rolled his eyes at, could make as much noise as he pleased, Paul’s dad would have a good reason kicking him out. As they stroud towards the kitchen, John almost stumbled when his boot caught a hedge, Paul’s grip tight around his bicep in titillation from another broken nose.

He watched Jim like a hawk from the corner of the kitchen and found the show Jim watching stodgy, John urged to walk there and recommend him  _ actual _ entertainment, Paul, the bugger, stopped him last minute.

As Paul dug through the fridge, John dismissed the task he was appointed to. Instead, peered at the plump curve of Paul’s arse. His underwear was like leggings; hugging and holding his cheeks and thighs sturdy, similar to the leather trousers they wore daily, only those were a dilemma he’d dash in the restroom to wank in shame. John’s attention snapped back when Paul whistled and snapped a finger. “Aye, are you there, Lennon?”

He shook his head and thrilled over the caress when he grabbed the bottle from Paul’s hand, “Clearly I am, Sherlock.”

“It didn't look like it ta me.” Paul quipped. 

“You’re daft.” John retorted, but chuckled. He looked around, Jim had turned off the tv to clean and organize papers scattered on the table (even his fucking sweater). “Shit, how do we get past him?”

Paul cursed under his breath, took over the spot where John was looking and fidgeted. His nostrils seared the alcohol cemented on Paul’s breath. “We’ll have t’ wait.”

John grumbled and leaned on the counter, rubbed his thumb over the neck of the bottle with Paul keenly watching. “His kip better be soon.”

-`-`-`-`-`-`-`-`-

It took Jim longer than what they expected, he cleaned the floor with a dirty broom and dustpan, some garbage fell off and he lifted it back over and over again, drove John insane when he’d hum the same stupid tune. Just when he finally went to the bathroom, John grabbed the pack of beer still buried in the back of the fridge and sprinted up the stairs with his feet banging in the process, Paul’s brow creased a biff. 

Settling in the room, John and Paul talked more than they usually did, at least from John’s perspective, music was the only topic mentioned back in Hamburg, predominantly fulminating against Stu. Now though, pertained to friends and family, old daft memories none the wiser. John were surprised to hear Paul confess he’d been caned as a kid for stealing candy from a fellow student. It wasn’t the same extent to what John attained back then, Quarry bank was the worst.

Paul seemed like his usual, bubbly self, looking jaded from isolation though, pale as sheeted ghosts. The only two things in color were his lips and hazel eyes. Time seemed to have creeped by somehow, conversation drifted to molten rocks of Paul and Pete’s arrest.

“It was daft, that.” John said, shuffling up the bed, propping his now bare feet up to his thighs. 

Paul sucked the filter of his smoke, “Pete dared me to, the buggar.” 

“Spillin’ the tea now are we?” he slapped his arm playfully, Paul scoffed.

“Shut up, at least you weren’t arrested.”

“Lucky me, I wasn’t the moron this time.” John said, grinning around the lip of the bottle, Paul gave him the finger and proned, clutched the nearest pillow and tucked it under his chin. 

Silence held in the air for a minute or two, both staring at each other for what felt like years, Paul spoke. “It sucked, leaving you there alone.”

John swallowed the anxiety that crept through and up his spine, stared at the glass he placed on the nightstand. “I barely spoke up, except towards that bartender.”

“How did that go?” Paul asked, looking up with big, inquisitional eyes. If only John saw that between his legs.

_ Fuck.. _

“The usual, told him what drink I wanted and that was it.” Timid, John hiddened it well steadily. “Nothing further.”

“Damn, m’ sorry John.” 

John placed his fingers under Paul’s chin, lifting it high enough to make eye contact. “It's all right, Paul.” He leaned down, stroked the apples of Paul’s cheek with the roll of his thumb, “It’s okay.”

Something tense strung around John’s throat like a constricting snake. Paul’s ample lips just an inch away from his own, their breaths mingling into one, perspiration built on John’s philtrum like steam. Their lips brushed a flair, gentle and experimental, enough to send his eyes fluttering and mind wheeling moreish, they went again without ripping away. Shock rippled through John’s body, it’s like a dream, felt all too palpable floating off: the softness of Paul’s lips, the instant puzzle-like connection, the way Paul’s stubbled chin would brush over his own drifted his mind somewhere blissful. 

The world around them halted still as John gently lugged Paul onto his lap, breath catenated by fingers threading through his auburn hair. Paul availed, gently pushed his tongue inside John’s wet mouth, slithering in the corners with a pirouette tongue, lapping with undeniable skill. John never imagined kissing a bloke — his best mate — would be this jaunty. Something electric, exciting and new capered stirring warm through cotton material. John felt himself strain against the leather when a hand slipped under his shirt and fondled his chest and abdomen, whimpering in mute with burning desire. They pulled away, unsteady and wide eyed upon the predicament, John wanted to laugh it off and disregard — euphoria held that feeling to its hinges when Paul’s lust-dilated eyes digged through his seams. John swallowed the variegated saliva sitting around his numb-tongue.

Paul’s hard-on was pressing against his own. He flushed hot, placed his hand on Paul’s bulge. He stroked it lightly, pulsing under his hand up, down, twitching and growing in tension. John’s mouth watered, Paul’s head was tilted back, neck straining from the weighted-ardent of his breath. 

John pulled the waistband down earnestly, causing Paul’s prick to spring upwards stiff-swollen red, petite from this view rather than sitting feet apart in their group wanking sessions. He wrapped his long fingers around the base and gave short strokes. Touching another bloke instead of himself was peculiar, handing off his pleasure lavishly was scarce. Always inveigle for a quicky in Hamburg, but not this time.

Paul must’ve caught on thought, trawling his hand to remove John’s belt and unzip his pants, withdrawing the length faster than he could blink. He bit back a moan, flopping the steady rhythm his hand created for Paul, squeezing it like a stress ball whenever a thumb stroked over the head of his own cock. Paul should’ve slapped him or break off his pleasure, but instead mimicked the pressure and John almost blacked out.

Their movements sped, caught on by chasing each other’s pleasure, whimpering in tantered breaths tickling their heated skins. Beads of sweat falling as they came in time; shooting long, white strings on the bed and sweat-soaked shirts. John silenced them both with a sloppy kiss that later became soft and coherent from a descending high.

John’s senses came back, opening his eyes to realize he’s reclined beside Paul, fiddled with the blanket draped over them even though they’re burning still with sweat peppering down temples. Loathing from what occurred, John’d vacated but Paul stopped him. A sparked hazel orb,  _ it's alright, it’s okay,  _ it seemed to say...  _ It’s only me.  _ The weight John had on his shoulders lifted when he buried his face in Paul’s neck, taking methodical incense inhales steaming back to Hamburg. 

_ “I can see a new tomorrow _

_ Everything we are will never die _

_ Loving's such a beautiful thing.” _

**Author's Note:**

> thx for giving this a shot :3 Let me know what you think, constructive criticism is always welcome too!
> 
> the song lyrics are from "Too Much Heaven" By Bee Gees
> 
> I highly recommend listening to it, its a beautiful song ❤


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